Still she dominates my thoughts—
as if the whole of earth had been made
for our romance alone, hidden in the shade!
Didn’t everyone in the human race
survive for centuries that I might see her face?
What part of a poem convinces you the poem is real?
The author’s love and how it makes you feel?
If this is true of the poem, doesn’t the earth
exist in a similar manner? Things are worth
only what they are to me.
Without this thought, there is no poetry.